Dead Ringer (25 page)

Sweat dripped down his face. Arms strained under his weight. He gritted his teeth, determined not to fall. Angelina was somewhere inside that goddamn fucking house and he wasn't going anywhere until he made damn sure she was all right.

Grunting with effort, he held on by sheer will until his booted toe found a crevice between two stones. He lodged one foot in it and sagged against the building, suddenly secure again. With no time to relax and his heart thudding sickly in his chest, he clamped his jaw down hard and began to climb. No telling how much time he'd lost, but the faint light in the distance had to be an approaching vehicle.
Patrol.

He might as well be a giant target under the plain light of the moon. He rolled one shoulder, feeling the weight of the Glock inside its holster. But the last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself or Angelina by firing it.

Focus.
He reached up and his fingers brushed the underside of the window casing. Another half inch, and they curled around the ledge. Over his left shoulder, the Jeep advanced relentlessly, its headlights sweeping the ground ahead, the spotlight in the back illuminating a wider, higher arc.

He pulled himself up so his eyes just barely cleared the bottom of the window. Inside, a bed. Whose? Impossible to tell from his position, but the window was cracked open.

The Jeep was almost directly below him, the spotlight sweeping the side of the ranch. No time to check another room. Bracing himself on one hand, he shoved the window open, and with a muttered prayer, slithered under and onto the floor.

The spotlight passed over the glass just where he'd been a second ago. As the light passed, it slid over a body crumpled on the floor.

He froze.

Crouched in the dark beneath the window, he stared, not sure he'd imagined it. Then his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he made out the lump on the floor.

He tore over to it, his belly twisting. White nightgown, light hair.
It isn't. Dont think it

With shaking hands, he checked the pulse in her neck. Relief flooded him. Gently, he turned her over on her back. No blood, no wounds that he could see in the stark, moonlit room. He yanked closed the curtains over the window, then risked turning on the bedside lamp.

Her golden hair sprawled over the floor, her beautiful mouth lay half open, lush as a flower bud. Raking his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair, he glimpsed -something wedged in her hand. Carefully, he pried the fingers open and saw the pearl monitor he'd pinned to her breast so many nights ago.

Something broke inside him. Had she been trying to contact him? Why the hell hadn't he noticed? He checked the back of the pin, but it was locked, the signal still intact. Panic circled low and pulsed in his veins. What had happened to her? He tossed the pin on the nightstand, then sat against the side of the bed and pulled her gently into his arms.

Softly, he brushed the hair from her face. "Angel," he whispered. He feathered a hand down her cheek and repeated her name again.

She groaned and he shook her. "Come on, Angel, wake up. Come back to me."

At last, her eyes fluttered open, glazed and cloudy. He watched the slow march of recognition as she tried to focus.

"Sharkman?" Her voice came out reed-thin, the word slightly slurred. Concern cramped his chest. She raised a hand to his face as if testing that he was real, and he covered the cold fingers with his own, pressing them against his cheek.

"It's me, Angel. Are you all right?"

She struggled to sit up, then collapsed back against him.

"Not... feeling well," she said, and ran her tongue over her lips.

"What happened? What are you doing on the floor?"

"Fell."

He let that pitiful explanation stand as her eyes closed again.

"Okay, Angel, let's see if you can get up." He tugged her to her feet, and when she swayed, he caught her to him. "Whoa, steady there."

He held her close, feeling her curved softness, the shape that had haunted him for days, and desire ripped through him.

Cut it out, Carver. Get your mind out of your pants.

As if she heard his thoughts, her eyes blinked open and her old defiance flickered through the green fog. "What... why are you here, Sharkman?" She smiled, a small, crooked tilting of her lips that squeezed his chest with concern. "Checking up... on me?"

Christ, she felt boneless against him. "What happened to you?"

"Couldn't get away. Sorry. Knew you'd be... mad."

He eased her onto the bed, stroking the hair away from her face. "I'm not mad." But barbed tendrils of worry pricked him. "What happened? What's wrong with you?"

She took a long time to focus. "Water," she croaked out at last.

A blue bottle stood on the nightstand next to the bed, the same kind of bottle Borian had brought with him to the Governor's Ball. Finn looked around for a glass, found one on the floor, and poured a finger's worth of water into it.

"Here." He held out the glass, but she pushed it away weakly.

"I thought you said you wanted-"

"No good."

"What's wrong with it?" He brought the glass to his lips, but before he could tilt back, she'd lunged at him, knocking the glass out of his hand. "What the-"

The effort cost her and she ended up sprawled facedown on the bed. She groaned and the sound sent his fear spiking upward. He dropped down beside her and helped her turn over. Her green eyes closed, then opened. Something about their groggy appearance, about her slurred speech nagged at him. She looked and sounded almost ... drugged.

His chest tightened and he glanced around, eyes lighting on the bottled water. Slipping something into it would be easy.

"Drugged," she whispered. "Water... drugged."

Her confirmation slammed into him with the force of a bullet. Only one explanation why she'd be drugged. Bo-rian knew who she was and what she was doing here.
Christ and all the angels.
Without another thought, he scooped her out of the bed and into his arms.

"What... are you doing?"

"Getting you out of here." He started for the door.

"Wait. Put me... down." She squiggled faintly, trying to escape.

"Your cover's been blown, Angel. Why the hell they didn't just kill you..." He swallowed, thankful for whatever stupidity had left her alive.

"Can't go." She groaned against him. "Got things to tell."

He stopped just short of the door. "What things?"

"Think... found your stuff. Not stables. Locked room. Funny kind of... computer on the door."

The hodgepodge of words rocked him, all the more because he hadn't expected her to actually do much of anything, and every day she had. And now here she was, hopped up to within an inch of her life, spilling out intel that any ten-year vet would have been proud of. A wave of admiration raced through him and he tightened his hold on her.

"That's good, Angel," he said gruffly. "Good job."

The long speech had worn her out and her head had sunk against his chest. Now her eyes met his and through the cloudy gaze he saw a glimmer of something-pride or gratitude. Triumph maybe. Whatever, he didn't care. Once again, she'd earned his praise. "Thanks, Shark... man." Her eyes drifted closed. "Put me... down now."

But he didn't want to put her down. He liked the feel of her in his arms, supple and round through the thin white gown. He spied a ruffled armchair covered in a girly floral print, and he sank into it, still holding Angelina. The chair swung forward under his weight. A rocker. He settled her on his lap, her head resting on his shoulder, and rocked gently.

"Can you start from the beginning? Go slow. Tell me everything."

She snuggled up against him and he repressed a groan. Even sick with drugs she smelled wonderfully feminine, felt warm and soft. His fingers tingled with her nearness and be wanted to run his hands over her. But she was distraction enough, caressing her would only breed more. So he held her and listened, trying to fill in the blanks of her halting speech while he quietly rocked her in the moonlit room.

He took a moment to sift through her faltering report. She'd come up empty on the stables and hadn't searched the guest house or staff quarters-though they were a long shot. 'Tell me about the lock on the door of that room. You said no one is allowed in but Borian?"

"Mmm." She nodded slightly. "Numbers. On a box."

"A keypad?"

"Mmm."

A metal door, closed with an electronic lock. A door that was out of the way so it wouldn't be spotted, that was off-limits to everyone. Out of all the leads, this had the most possibilities. "Could you draw me a picture?"

"Try."

"Good girl." Still holding her, he stood, then put her gently back on the rocker. He checked his pockets, but aside from a spare clip for his gun, he found only a couple of power bars-no pen and no paper. He'd run out of the damn mine without his notebook, another sign that he'd lost his perspective. But when Angelina hadn't shown up...

He stifled the memory of panic and refocused his efforts. Glancing around the room, he saw the tray that held the blue water bottle, grabbed the linen napkin off it, then riffled around the dresser for a pen. The best he could do was a tube of lipstick that had rolled behind a vase of flowers. He cleared the tray, upended it in her lap, and placed the napkin on top. Then he knelt in front of her and handed her the makeshift pencil.

She took the golden tube with wobbly fingers and peered closely at the label. "Rose Dawn. My favorite."

"Really?" He couldn't help teasing her. "I thought you were more of a Red Siren girl."

She threw him a small smile. "Former life. Now ..." She leaned against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. She looked sleepy and drained, and his heart constricted.

"Now you're the Rose Dawn type," he prompted.

"Life is change." She made an effort to sit up, then twisted the lipstick open. "A Bic ... would be cheaper."

"Yeah, but I'd have to go out for one."

She smiled wanly, and another surge of respect went through him. God, she was tough. And smart. And so achingly beautiful in the room's dim moonlight. Even wired and dozy, she looked good. He swallowed the sudden rush of feeling and stood, gesturing to the napkin.

"Do the best you can. I'll take the drawing and see if I can get a decoder for the lock."

She sketched out the keypad with shaky strokes, stopping frequently for brief respites. In the end, she'd done a good enough job for him to take it for analysis. They'd get an expert to look at it and figure some way in.

He looked over at Angelina. Eyes closed, she was breathing softly, the lipstick still in her fingers. He stared at the face he'd been seeing in his mind, and at her feminine form outlined by the flimsy gown. He remembered the feel of her body, the silky skin and lavish bow of waist and hips. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, pushing desire away.

Truth was, right now lust felt almost... sacrilegious. He laughed to himself, never believing he'd use that word in relation to Angelina. But she looked so young and vulnetable at the moment, almost asleep in the old-fashioned rocker. Moonlight glazed her face, softening the brittle veneer and leaving behind the girl she must have been once. A stab of anger pierced him at the thought of what had happened to her. If that small-town sheriff were here, Finn would strangle him with his bare hands, not to mention the bastard who'd hurt her in the first place.

Not that Finn was any better. Sending her here, putting her in danger. This was
his
job,
his
mission, what
he'd
been trained for. She should be miles away, polishing her nails and driving every man in sight crazy.

Smiling slightly, he eased down beside her chair and gently extracted the lipstick from her grasp. Her eyes opened at his touch.

"Be belter soon. Finish."

He looked up at her. Whatever they gave her wasn't deadly ... yet. Maybe if she didn't ingest more, she'd be all right.

Maybe.

Did he want to take that bet? She was a civilian, his responsibility. She was doing him a favor, doing her country a favor. How far could he let her go? "Sorry, Angel. We have to get you out of here."

Her eyes, hazed and druggy, stayed on his. "Stay."

"Borian knows who you are."

Her head sifted slowly from side to side. "No. Wants me. Wants wife back."

He knelt in front of her and took her hand. He knew he should keep his distance, but he craved the touch of her skin, the solid reality that she was here where he could watch over her. "You can't stay. It's not safe."

"Can't find stuff... without me."

Fear gripped as the truth of this hit home all over again. Angelina was the only way they could get into the ranch, and therefore into the places where Borian could have stashed the plutonium. But Finn didn't want to admit it. "We'll find a way."

"What way?"

He didn't have a clue, but he didn't care.

And that scared him more than anything. He
should
care. This was his job, why he was here. Why she was here. He couldn't let his personal feelings get in the way.

Her fingers squeezed his, the pressure feeble but there. "Need me."

A boulder settled on his chest. "Yeah." He sighed, reluctantly released her hand, and walked to the window. Another patrol was heading in their direction, and he ducked out of sight waiting for the light to pass. He cursed silently. All his protective instincts were on high alert, and that always meant trouble. But try as he might, he couldn't shake them off.

Reluctantly, he turned to her. "You'll stay until I come back with the decoder for the lock. A day at the most. If the plutonium is in that room, your job is over anyway."

She nodded. "'Kay."

"But you have to promise me something." In two strides he was back at the chair, kneeling in front of her. "No water unless someone else is drinking from the same bottle. If you're thirsty, use tap water." He searched her face to make sure his words were getting through. "Do you understand? I can't leave you here unless I know you understand."

"Understand. No water. Except... tap."